Inclosing A Copy Of “Holy Willie’s Prayer,”Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 17852
While at the stook the shearers cow’rTo shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,Or in gulravage rinnin scowrTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme.8
My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnetOn gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet,Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,Lest they should blame her,An’ rouse their holy thunder on itAn anathem her.14
I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,That I, a simple, country bardie,Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,Wha, if they ken me,Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,Lowse hell upon me.20
But I gae mad at their grimaces,Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces,Their raxin conscience,Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgracesWaur nor their nonsense.26
There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breastThan mony scores as guid’s the priestWha sae abus’d him:And may a bard no crack his jestWhat way they’ve us’d him?32
See him, the poor man’s friend in need,The gentleman in word an’ deed—An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleedBy worthless, skellums,An’ not a muse erect her headTo cowe the blellums?38
O Pope, had I thy satire’s dartsTo gie the rascals their deserts,I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,An’ tell aloudTheir jugglin hocus-pocus artsTo cheat the crowd.44
God knows, I’m no the thing I should be,Nor am I even the thing I could be,But twenty times I rather would beAn atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid beJust for a screen.50
An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge, an’ malice fauseHe’ll still disdain,An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,Like some we ken.56
They take religion in their mouth;They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,For what?—to gie their malice skouthOn some puir wight,An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth,To ruin straight.62
All hail, Religion! maid divine!Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,Who in her rough imperfect lineThus daurs to name thee;To stigmatise false friends of thineCan ne’er defame thee.68
Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain,An’ far unworthy of thy train,With trembling voice I tune my strain,To join with thoseWho boldly dare thy cause maintainIn spite of foes:74
In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,In spite o’ undermining jobs,In spite o’ dark banditti stabsAt worth an’ merit,By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,But hellish spirit.80
O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,Within thy presbyterial boundA candid liberal band is foundOf public teachers,As men, as Christians too, renown’d,An’ manly preachers.86
Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d(Which gies you honour)Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,An’ winning manner.92
Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,An’ if impertinent I’ve been,Impute it not, good Sir, in aneWhase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang’d ye.98